


Close Quarters

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: 1940s, Age Difference, Anxiety Attacks, Awkwardness, Backstage, Bathing/Washing, Card Games, Childhood Memories, Cigarettes, Claustrophobia, Comfort, Fantasizing, Feeding, Fruit, Hotels, Internal Conflict, Internalized Acephobia, Intimacy, Kissing, Love, M/M, Massage, Partnership, Period Typical Attitudes, Play Fighting, References to Drugs, Religious Guilt, Reminiscing, Romantic Friendship, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, Surprise Kissing, Understanding, Undressing, Worry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-01-23 00:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21310927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: In the middle of the act, Dean starts coughing. He claims he can go on, but Jerry knows better.
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 39
Kudos: 64





	1. Coughing

The coughing starts in the middle of the orchestra bit. One minute, Dean’s holding nonchalantly to the mic stand, waiting with mock exasperation for his partner to finish conducting the pianist in a tinkling interlude. The next, he’s buried his mouth in the crook of his elbow. He coughs once, twice, certain he’s cleared it. Jerry’s watching him. Dean raises an eyebrow – _Go on_ – and they swing back into the act. The audience is none the wiser. Dean coughs again in the middle of his second verse; Jerry covers it by screeching at the pianist: “When’s the last time you dusted these keys?”

Dean makes it to the end of his verse and steps back to let Jerry sing. Dean’s sweating, loosens his tie. He clamps his handkerchief over his mouth and hacks, hoping it’s quiet enough. One of the trombonists glances at him; Dean waves his hand, shoves the handkerchief back in his pocket. Then he turns to his partner. The song’s almost over, and Dean strolls to the microphone, clears his throat, and joins Jerry for the final line. Thankfully, his voice bears out. The audience claps and whistles. Dean feels Jerry’s hand on the small of his back. He responds with his own on the nape of Jerry’s neck, stroking lightly. Then they move apart, the orchestra strikes up for a big finish. The boys fall in step and, in perfect unison, dance offstage.

Hidden in the wings, Jerry looks at Dean. “You’re sick,” he says simply.

“Dry throat, that’s all,” Dean says. A dancer hurries past, and he catches her arm. “Sorry, honey,” he says, and favours her with a charming grin. “Could you grab me a glass of water real quick?”

“Sure, Dino.” She beams and disappears into the shadows.

Dean turns back to Jerry; there’s an odd expression on his face.

“What?” Dean asks.

Jerry shakes his head. He reaches out his long fingers and touches Dean’s forehead, strokes his cheek.

“You _are_ sick,” he says. His fingers linger on Dean’s jaw.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean says, but Jerry’s hand is still on him. Dean tilts his head, watches the Adam’s apple in Jerry’s scrawny neck bob.

The tick-tack of high heels approaches, and Jerry snatches back his hand. Dean wonders at this but turns to the dancer as she reappears. “Thanks,” he says, winking. She flushes, touches his arm. Dean watches her walk away and thinks maybe he’ll see her later. Then he’s coughing again.

“Jeez, Paul.” Jerry thumps his back. “Think you can do the next show?”

Dean shrugs him off. “I’m fine,” he manages, and then drains the cold glass. He sets it on the floor and takes Jerry’s arm. “C’mon.”

They run onstage; probably the audience didn’t notice the musical interlude was longer than usual. Jerry thanks them, hopes they’ll come to see the show again. Both men take their final bow, and then they’re backstage once more.

“You can’t go out.” Jerry’s touching him again, hands on his head. “You’re burning up!”

“What’s this?” Dick has joined them. He studies Dean closely.

“Dean’s sick,” Jerry says. “I’ll let ’em know we can’t do the next show.”

“What, are you crazy?” Dean shakes his head, won’t admit how it makes the room spin. “Just gimme an aspirin, an upper, _something_. I’ll do the next show.”

“You sure, Dean?” Dick frowns. “You look a little pale.”

“Just get me an aspirin, will ya?”

Dick throws up his hands – he knows when he’s been beat – and hurries off to get the pills. Jerry, however, stands firm.

“Paul, listen—”

“Jer, trust me, all right?”

“I do, Paul, but—”

“Then listen.” Gently, he holds Jerry’s neck. “I’ll be all right. Just lemme do the show, and then we’ll see how I feel for tomorrow. Okay?”

Jerry peers into his face. “You really think you’re not sick?”

“Naw, just a sore throat, a headache. I’ll be fine after an aspirin.”

Something twinkles in Jerry’s eyes, something Dean knows he should be able to read. _Maybe I really_ am _sick_, he thinks.

“Okay, Paul.” Jerry smiles. “I trust you.”

Dean takes two aspirin, washes them down with a gulp of water, though he might as well not bother for all the good it does; his throat scratches and burns, and he won’t speak before the next show. When it’s time, and the band strikes up, and Jerry steps out to introduce his partner, Dean throws back two more pills, swallows them dry. 

Somehow, he makes it. They dance off to thunderous applause and wait a moment in the wings to catch their breaths. Dean doubles over, panting, wheezing, coughing into his handkerchief. Jerry touches his back; Dean can feel his hand tremble.

“Jesus Christ, Paul.”

He waves him away. “Fine, fine, let’s just get out there.”

They run out, they bow. Jerry begins to speak, to close off the act. Dean hangs back, handkerchief at the ready. He holds in the worst of it, clears his throat intermittently against the back of his hand. His head swims; he can barely hear how his partner ends the show, just sees him point from himself to Dean, look over his shoulder. _Hurry up, for Christ’s sake._ Suddenly, he thinks he’s going to faint.

Then the crowd is cheering. Jerry beckons. On legs like leaden jelly, he fairly staggers downstage, hoping no one notices. No one, that is, except Jerry, who notices everything, always. It’s a little scary, just how much he notices. Scary, but exciting too, Dean thinks. Electric. Right now, though, he’s the furthest thing from excited.

_Whatever it is, Jer, whatever you want, do it quick._

He’s holding out his hand, smiling. Dean smiles back, takes the proffered hand. They shake. Then that glint returns to Jerry’s eye, and Dean finally realises what it means. He wonders how he could have ever doubted.

Yanking his arm, Jerry lunges. He grabs his face with his free hand and slams his mouth into Dean’s. Their lips and teeth mash and scrape together. Dean’s knees buckle, as they must to sell the bit, but in his sickly fugue it’s more real now that it has been before. _Christ, Jer_, he thinks, _I’ll fall!_ His ears ring with the screaming delight of the crowd, and in the midst of his delirium – _I gotta push him off or pull away that’s the bit that’s the act push him off and wipe my mouth_ – he feels the kiss shift and deepen and _holy shit_ he throws Jerry off him, all but staggers upstage, wiping his mouth and staring bug-eyed at his partner.

Jerry’s skipping away, swinging his arms in girlish glee. He swoons into Dick’s waiting arms. The audience eats it up, and once Dean’s recovered enough, he and Jerry wish them a good night, hope to see them again, and run offstage.

In the dressing room, Jerry is practically vibrating. He bounces and zigzags and spins like a dynamo, face flushed, chest heaving. Dean wipes his mouth, his face, his mouth again, trying not to think about what Jerry just did. As he takes off his tux, he starts coughing again, hides it in the crook of his elbow. He takes another aspirin as Dick walks through the door, holding a large ceramic mug.

“Can’t believe you made it,” he says, slapping Dean on the back. He turns to Jerry. “No way he can do tomorrow’s shows.”

“I’m with you,” he says, calming down enough to regard his partner with serious concern.

“We gotta contract,” Dean wheezes.

“Who cares? We do another show like that, I’m gonna be back to a single!” He touches Dean’s shoulder. “I’ll get us out of it.”

“How?”

“You let the Jew handle that,” he says proudly.

Dean shakes his head. This kid, nine years younger, skinny and gangling, but so sure of himself in matters of business. How did he get like that? They look at each other, Dean already stripped to his waist, Jerry still dressed but his bow tie lost and his shirt open at the neck. Jerry reaches out to touch his face, press the back of his hand to his forehead. He stays silent, but Dean sees real fear in his eyes.

He wants to reassure him but can’t think what to say.

Then the kid smiles. “You’re shvitzing,” he declares, winks at Dick, and then he’s gone.

“Here.” Dick holds out the mug. Dean takes it; it’s warm and smells of lemons. “Should help your throat, but looks like you may need something a little stronger.”

Dean thanks him, sips the sweet and sour drink. It goes a little way to soothing the burn in his throat. He moans softly.

“Nice, huh? Just honey and lemon in water, but works wonders.” Dean leans against the desk, lights a cigarette. Then he chuckles. “Boy, Jerry almost knocked you over at the end there.”

“Hm.” Dean sips again, sets down the mug. “Sometimes I wish he’d warn me.”

“_Warn_ you?” Dick looks incredulous. “I figured even when you improvise, you always _know_.”

“Well…” Dean thinks about this. He leans back, sniffs mightily, spits into a tissue. “Yeah,” he agrees. “We know. I can’t explain it.” He pauses. “But sometimes we just… throw things in. You think I knew he was gonna kiss me the first time?”

Dick laughs. “Oh, yeah, I can see that conversation right now.”

Dean shakes his head. “Right? Asking my permission for that? No. Jerry just did it.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind. But sometimes…” He struggles for the words, coughs into his handkerchief. Picking up the mug again, he says, “I know when he’s gonna do it. But not… _how_ he’s gonna do it. I don’t know if that makes sense.” He sips slowly.

Then Dick giggles. The fella _giggles_.

“What? What’d I say?”

“Dino, did…” But he’s gone, collapsed into unrestrained glee.

“Dick, what—” Dean’s throat contracts; he coughs and hacks into his handkerchief, so hard and so long he worries he might rupture something. When it passes, he checks the white cotton, convinced he’ll find blood. It’s clean. He stuffs it away and looks back at Dick, who’s barely under control.

“Well? Wanna share it?”

“Dino, did” – he swallows laughter – “did Jerry put his tongue in your mouth?”


	2. Kid

The ride back to the hotel is quiet, tense, not least because Dean's even less of a conversationalist than usual. Dick rides with them, sits opposite in the limo, eyes flicking between them. If Jerry notices, he doesn't say anything, just stares into space, gnawing his fingernail, glancing worriedly at his partner every time he muffles a cough against the back of his hand. Dean doesn't look at him - can't, won't, leans his head against the glass and prays for death. His hand grows hot and clammy in his partner's grip but he says nothing.

_Did Jerry put his tongue in your mouth?_

He wants to slam his head against the window. No, first he wants to slam _Dick's_ head against the window. Then his own. Then maybe Dick's again for good measure. Wipe that shit-eating grin off his face. Knock that sly suggestive glint out his eye.

_You wanna say somethin', Dick?_

And the horror on the bandleader's face, colour draining. Dean's fingers itch. Maybe Jerry senses something; he strokes along his thumb, squeezes lightly, and Dean wishes they were alone. The kid wants to sit close. Dean can tell, can practically feel him vibrate, anxious at the little distance between them, just a seat, with their hands tangled sweaty together on the leather. But he's a good boy; he gives his partner as much space as he can handle. Dean inhales - maybe he means to speak - but the coughing starts again; he practically shoves his handkerchief into his mouth. Jerry's concern beats heavily on the back of his head. _Kid, please,_ he thinks. _Please._

He closes his eyes.

Back in the dressing room, Dick's mouth dropped open. He stammered, floundered. Dean got a kind of pleasure from it. He almost wanted Dick to push his luck, see what happened. Just try it. But then the kid came back, wiping his hands. "All done, bubbe," he said, patting Dean's cheek, a little gentler than he might have usually. Then to Dick, "We'll make up the shows." Dean tried to protest - he could do it, or Jerry could handle the final shows alone; he's done it before, though Dean wouldn't bring that up for anything - but his throat had other ideas, strangled the words, left them to die in a dry, hacking heap. Jerry stroked his back, exchanged glances with Dick, who bowed out; Dean saw the relief cross his face before the door clicked shut.

Jerry held him. "My poor bubbe," he said in his ear. Dean felt his joking tone falter, said nothing. He let the kid nuzzle and stroke, and then gently moved away, going back to the rapidly cooling mug. It wasn't so soothing now, left a bad taste in the back of his throat, but he drained it, grimaced, wiped his face with the handkerchief. Then he looked up at his pale, drawn face in the mirror.

"Don't worry, Paul." The kid came up behind him, rested his chin on his shoulder. Their eyes met in the glass. "Everything's all right." He dipped his mouth to Dean's neck. "Lemme look after you now, okay?"

_he feels the kiss shift and deepen—_

Dean made a noise in the back of his throat.

"Paul?" Watching him in the mirror, concern knotting his brow. "What's wrong?"

_—his tongue in your mouth?_

Gently, slowly, Dean moved away again. He stroked Jerry's wrist as he went, to let him know they were all right, they were still friends. "Jer..."

"Mm?" Maybe he wasn't getting the message. Maybe he didn't care. Either way, he'd come close again, and slipped his fingers into the damp hair behind Dean's ear. He smoothed and stroked, and smiled secretly when Dean couldn't keep back a soft moan. "You like that, bubbe?"

"Jerry, stop a second."

Jerry stopped. He took back his hand and shoved it in his pocket, smiling. Like a good boy.

Dean coughed again, tried to get the words straight. "Jer... Why'd you do that?"

"Do what?" Batting his eyelashes.

"Why'd ya... kiss me like that? Onstage like that?"

Jerry flinched. Dean wanted to hug him, take it back, let him do it again. But he stood firm - as firm as he could with that threatening tickle in his throat.

"O-oh." Jerry laughed. "_That_. You didn't like it?"

"Jerry."

He glanced at the floor. "What's the problem, Paul?"

He sighed. "You'll get sick, Jer. You can't do things like that, all right?"

Jerry lit up. "Why, Mr Martin, whatever do you _mean_? How could I possibly get sick when you _assured_ me - when you gave me your solemn _vow_ \- that you weren't sick?"

Dean stared at him.

"Of course," he went on, "I never would have done such a thing had I _known_."

"You son of a bitch."

Jerry cackled and threw himself at Dean. "My mother always said I shouldn't trust a Catholic." He kissed him soundly on the cheek.

"Fuck you, Jer."

"My dear partner." He hugged him hard. "I would be happy to oblige." Dancing away from Dean's swipe. "Gotta be quicker than that, ya schmuck!" Slipping under Dean's arm, he put on an announcer's voice. "Kid Crochett takes a real pasting from Super Jew." He leaped on to the couch. "Looks like the Italian's past his prime, but— _gah_!"

Dean caught him, lifted him easily and held him tight against his chest. "Finished?"

"Lemme go, ya greaseball." Wriggling, squirming for freedom - but Dean saw the colour high in his cheeks, felt the jerky rise and fall of his lungs.

Dean could feel a cough building. "You'll be a good boy?"

"Mm-mm. Promise."

"Well, all right, then." He let him go, let him kiss his cheek and watched him collapse, giggling, on to the couch. Then the cough came, and fear flickered on the kid's face.

"Oh, Paul."

He waved him off, the topic closed.

Now the limo pulls up outside the hotel, and Dean nearly falls out. He spits into the street, muttering, cursing, stumbling up the steps. Jerry's holding his elbow, not quite steering. Dean can hear him talking to the doorman, to Dick, can't make out the words, wants to peels off the tux he's already been out of once tonight and leave each piece in the foyer, wants to curl up on the cool floor and sleep for a year. Maybe he wants Jerry to lie down with him. Maybe that's okay. But it's a lot to think about now, and first he needs to get out of these clothes.

"We'll get you outta them, don't worry, bubbe."

Did he say that out loud? Did he say the part about wanting to lie down with the kid? Ah, fuck it. Who cares anyway? Jerry's holding his arm, leading him up one, two, three flights of stairs, and Dean thinks he's telling him thanks, telling him not to worry so much, and he thinks the kid might have tears in his eyes, and it's a safe bet, so common, but it's sad, always so sad, and Dean wants to hug him, but he's already falling on to the bed. He stares at the ceiling, at Jerry and Dick in the doorway. He tunes in, focuses:

"Go on, Dick, we're all right now."

And Dick hesitating, standing like he's forgotten how to do it right while Jerry opens the window, gets it just so.

"Dick, don't gimme that look." Dean's speaking. How is he still speaking? "Don't worry about it."

"Dino, I wasn't trying—"

"I know that." He struggles to sit, feels the kid beside him, behind him on the bed. "Chrissake, I know that. Go on, get outta here." He doesn't want to look at him anymore, and Dick's happy to go.

They're alone again, the door closed, the window spilling cool night air into the room. Dean sighs. His collar's strangling him. Something's tugging at his tux tie, working the top buttons free, sliding his jacket away. He sighs again, leans against the kid.

"Lemme help, Paul."

And Jerry's crawling off the bed, crouching in front of his partner to work his feet out of his shoes and socks. Dean watches him, dazed. Imagines the kid working on his vest, his belt. Not sick enough, not far gone enough for _that_, Christ, not that.

"Jer."

"It's okay, Paul, I'll—"

"Jer, stop."

Jerry stops. He chews his lips and stands a little sheepishly in front of him.

"I'm all right, Jer."

"But I—"

"Go on, Jer." Sending him away. And he'll go, like a good boy. But Dean hates it. Always hates it. And when Jerry's sick next, when he has another anxious spell and has to rest, Dean will come and undress him, soothe him, and he knows how good that it is for Jerry. He wants to let the kid return the favour. But he thinks about those slender fingers and almost screams. "Go on, Jer." Quieter now, kinder he hopes. And Jerry smiles, sits close on the bed, and nudges Dean's nose with his own.

"Lemme just once, Paul." But he's already doing it. And Dean waits and waits - it's closed and sweet, no teasing tongue like last time. Joking or not, the kid knows when to hold back. Sometimes.

Dean chuckles when the kid's mouth goes away. "Now you really will get sick." He rests his forehead on Jerry's shoulder. Bony, skinny. Needs to eat more. He'll tell him tomorrow. "Crazy boy," he whispers. Coughs. Apologises.

Jerry shrugs. "Cough all you want. Blow your nose on my shirt cuff even." And then, softer, hopeful, breaking his heart: "Want I should stay?"

_Yes._ "'Sall right." _Stay._ "Go on. Go to bed, Jer."

Jerry doesn't move. Dean thinks he might stay anyway. But no. He listens. He stands and strokes Dean's hair, then drops a kiss on his clammy brow. "I'm across the hall."

Dean knows. He watches the kid go, returns lethargically the cute little wave. Then he's alone. Somehow he's out of his clothes and curled up naked on the mattress, fancy sheets be damned. He coughs weakly, groans, shoves a pillow over his face. It's too hot, then, and he throws it into a corner. He ought to force himself up, into the bathroom for a cool shower. He imagines the kid climbing in after him and drifts to sleep with that sweet-scary picture flickering in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember that sickfic I started? Well, I hate that it took me this long to continue. Hopefully it's worth the wait :)  
Also, I stole Dean calling Jerry 'crazy boy' from the wonderful togetherboth. Please forgive me!  
Thanks so much for reading <3


	3. Fruit

It’s gone noon when the kid knocks on his door. Dean’s been up since eight, restless, lazy, managed a shower around nine but not much else. Pacing, coughing. Stir crazy. Impossible, he knows, only a few hours indoors, but nothing holds his focus; he keeps glancing at the clock, only seconds passing each time. He pulls on a robe and breaks out in a sweat, shoves it in a corner and sits by the window, shivering. All the time coughing pathetically. He could get dressed, go out – at least across the hall – but thoughts of having to walk anywhere send him back to bed, exhausted, too weary to sleep. Then the knocking, and it shocks him into a brief, dry fit swallowed by his handkerchief.

He opens the door. Jerry smiles at him, dressed: a paisley tie and clean white shirt beneath the bluish jacket. Dean is struck briefly by the fact that he looks quite handsome. He considers telling him, pictures the kid’s blush, his not-quite-exaggerated delight, and says nothing. Two paper bags nestle under his arms, and with his hands otherwise occupied, he greets his partner with a furtive little kiss on the cheek. Dean can see he’d rather throw himself into his arms but instead slips past into the room. Dean catches him from behind, pulls his friend close and holds him awhile.

“Miss me, bubbe?” Joking. Almost.

“Hm.”

Hugging. Just hugging. The kid’s arms are pinned by his body, the bags. Dean knows he prefers to be held anyway. And maybe it’s better for him. Maybe it’s better if his hands can’t go places they shouldn’t. Dean’s glad he put on shorts earlier, but after six years or so the kid’s stopped showing he cares. Dean remembers how once Jerry climbed on to a hotel bed beside him clad in sweet plaid pyjamas, how his eyes widened – excited, embarrassed – and he plucked at the covers, _Lemme see, lemme see!_, and Dean wouldn’t, but held him anyway, held him close until the kid stopped trembling, until he turned in his arms and nudged closer.

“Want we should stay like this all day?”

Dean laughs and lets him go, turns to cough into the crook of his elbow.

“No, wait.”

Dean waits. Jerry puts down the bags, wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and squeezes. He feels the kid’s mouth on his neck.

“All right, Jer.” Whispering, he coaxes his little partner back, just to look at him.

Then Jerry’s outside again, crouching, picking up two paper cups and kicking the door shut. Locking it.

Dean sits on the bed, legs crossed. He fingers curiously the large paper bags, catches the scent of pastrami on rye. Jerry hands him a cup. It’s warm and sweet – not coffee, lighter; it slips down nicely. He licks his lips and watches his partner buzz around the room in shirtsleeves, rolled up over knobby elbows, close the window (“It’s chilly in here, boy!”), fold the robe on to the chair, and then lay out the sandwiches. There’s also a small box of fruit, strawberries, raspberries, and it’s a lovely thing. Dean wants to start with those, but lets the kid finish his nursemaid bit. Jerry smiles at him.

“Lunch first,” he says. “Then we’ll do Doctors and Nurses.” He touches the tip of his tongue to his lip and smooths his hair.

Dean chuckles. It’s easier now but still a little ticklish. After a bite of pastrami, he goes back to his cup. He eats slow, watching the kid make a methodical demolition of the meat he once claimed “killed more of my people than that greasy-haired schmuck on the continent”. Dean can half-believe it, watching him now, but hopes he can handle a little more.

“Paul?”

Dean’s holding out the remaining half of his sandwich.

“But you’re sick, you gotta eat.”

“I don’t want it.”

“But Paul—”

“You’re too skinny,” he says, and the kid shifts on the mattress. “C’mon, Jer, humour me.”

Jerry sighs. “The things I do for love.” And Dean laughs as the last half of the sandwich disappears down his boy’s throat. Dean’s started on the fruits, so sweet and fresh his eyes itch, but maybe it’s just because he’s sick.

Jerry watches. Dean can feel him track the fruits he takes from the punnet to his lips. It’s a strange feeling, having the kid’s eyes on him like this. Not unpleasant. Dean coughs against the back of his hand and then tosses a raspberry into the air and catches it in his mouth. A neat little gesture. Easy. Jerry waits a second and then, casually, achingly sweet, he copies it.

They look at each other, chewing. Smiling. Then they look away.

Dean rolls a raspberry between his fingers and raises an eyebrow. Jerry nods eagerly, and when Dean lets fly, the kid catches it neatly in his mouth. He grins. Dean tries another, and again, and then feels a little punchy and throws too hard, too fast, but the kid’s keyed up, determined, and he stretches, tips back, back, too far—

Dean seizes his tie. They’re suspended that way for a moment; somewhere, the little fruit drops to the floor with a whisper. Then Dean’s hauling Jerry forward, slow, slow. The kid’s giggling, uncertain. Dean holds his arms. Strokes. Jerry catches his breath, looks at Dean through his eyelashes. Dean thinks distractedly that if Jerry were a girl, and if this were a movie, as leading man he’d have to kiss him now. He could do it anyway. Jerry’s eyes widen, soften, and Dean wonders for the tenth, twentieth, fiftieth time if the kid can read his mind. _Really_ read it. _For real_, comes the Idiot’s phantom voice.

_Solo un ragazzo_, he thinks. Reminds himself. _Non capisce. Si fida di te. Non rovinarlo._

Dean smiles gently at him. Then he looks at the punnet.

Three left.

He picks up a particularly sweet-looking strawberry and turns back to his partner. Jerry straightens. “Do it nice, Dean,” he says and opens his mouth, eyes closed, serene. Dean considers this, pictures himself gently slotting the fruit between his friend’s lips. Wonders if his friend’s lips taste more of strawberries or raspberries, or if the pastrami might still beat all. He shakes his head. He shuts one eye and lines up the shot. Readies once, twice… and then bounces the fruit off his partner’s forehead.

“_Gah_!” Jerry pouts, crosses his arms. “What was that for?”

“Aw, c’mon, Jer.”

“Do it for real, Dean.” Climbing, pitching, the nine-year-old emergent. 

“All right, all right.”

And Jerry shuffles closer, leans forward and closes his eyes. His sweet little mouth drops open. _Christ, Dino._ He shakes his head and coughs. Then he’s lining up again, aiming… and bouncing it off Jerry’s nose.

“_Dean_.” Whining almost, showing his teeth. He hits him, one hard smack on the shoulder. Dean laughs and briefly loses himself to a dry heaving cough. Jerry watches him closely, touches his arm. Then they’re back again, performing. 

“Don’t joke around.”

“Who’s joking?” Dean says, and then: “You’re too far away.” Their knees touching. “C’mere.” And he pulls the kid gently by his elbow so he’s almost in his lap and slips the last strawberry between his slightly parted lips. He holds it by the stalk, waiting. Jerry’s hand is braced high up on his thigh. His other rests on Dean’s wrist. He’s so close Dean can hardly see him; he’s eyes and a mouth, a suggestion of a face. Then his teeth close. Pinkish juice trickles over Dean’s thumb. He swallows. Jerry swallows. Dean leans forward to lick the juice before it drips. Keen little puffs of air brush his top lip.

_Ah_, he thinks. Leading man or no, he won’t have to do the kissing. If he stays this close the kid will do it for him and wouldn’t that be something. Nothing new, nothing strange there. Jerry likes to kiss him. And Dean doesn’t mind it so much. Most of the time. There’s a spot on his neck Jerry likes, and Dean’s pretty fond of it too; and sometimes he’ll stroke lightly at the base of Dean’s skull and he’ll see stars. It wasn’t always like that. Before they were partners, Dean was better, stronger. He’d stand firm in dark hotel rooms or empty train stations, shadowy corners backstage, let the kid peck once and pull away. Then came the act, those first shows. And after that, something shifted. In Chicago, something inside him buckled and weakened, when Jerry told him the truth.

Now Jerry tells him the truth every day.

So why not let him kiss you? Like last night, before he went to bed. Soft and sweet. A little sad. Closed. Like friends, if friends can kiss like that. And Dean doesn’t have to do a thing, just maybe tell him everything’s okay, or rub his back through his shirt, and then not through his shirt. If it goes on too long and the kid gets carried away, no one has to get mad. They’ll just go back a few minutes. Maybe Dean can hunt for those errant strawberries while Jerry gets himself under control. Maybe Jerry will bray in his Idiot voice something outrageous, and they’ll fall about laughing like mischievous schoolboys.

Jerry says his name. Asking.

And Dean tosses the little piece of greenery into the punnet with the others. He feels the shuddering sigh as Jerry’s whole body relaxes. Relief, maybe. Then the kid’s buzzing around again, collecting the refuse from their lunch and shoving it into the trash. He comes back all business, pouring out the contents of the second paper bag and laying it out on the mattress, babbling, explaining himself.

“There was a lotta stuff, Paul, I didn’t know what to get, so I just grabbed a little of everything.”

“Christ, Jer, d’you buy the whole drugstore?”

“You wanna get better or not?”

Dean’s shuffled back to sit against the headboard. He stares incredulous at the veritable trove that covers the bed. Jerry picks up boxes, little jars, scans them, sniffs some, makes piles of yeses, noes and maybes, talking all the time:

“These are for fever, you gotta fever? Here, lemme feel. Mm, well, not too bad I guess, but take one anyway. I’ll get you a glass of water. Oh! And this stuff, this is good stuff. For your chest when you go to bed. I guess maybe you can have it awake, too, but asleep it’s better. Smells like shit and never washes off but it works. And I got you some aspirin, of course, and these lozenges, too, for the sore throat you take ’em. Oh, and there’s—”

“Jer?”

“I know.” He’s staring at the boxes and jars and tins, scratching his face. “I got carried away maybe.”

“Jer.” 

Jerry looks at him, at the small tin in his hand. Dean raises an eyebrow. And the kid goes red as a lobster.

“Oh! Oh, Paul, I—”

“You know, Jer, nice boys keep these in the car.”

Even redder now, if possible: “_Jesus_, Paul, I was just grabbin’ whatever they had, I wasn’t _thinking_!”

Dean’s chuckling, giggling, giddy with cold and the sheer sweetness of his partner’s embarrassment.

“Oh, _God_, stop!” Jerry moans, clutches his head. “Give it here, lemme put it away.”

“What? But, Jer, you bought it for me.” Holding it out of reach. Being an asshole, really, but Christ, it's so easy.

“Please, Paul, don’t make fun of me.” He grabs for it, misses. “Paul, c’mon!” He lunges, sprawls on the mattress.

Dean knuckles the top of his head.

“’Sall right kid, I’ll keep hold of ’em.” He tosses them casually into the bedside drawer. “I’m too sick for that anyway.”

Jerry sighs and stares morosely at the ceiling. “Well, when you’re better maybe.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

He blanches. “I mean, you know – when you feel better and, and – oy vey iz mir, can we change the subject?”

“Hm.” Dean nods and ruminates on this. In the silence, he pops one of the fever tablets on to the back of his tongue and swallows it with the water Jerry brought him. Dean can picture the kid in the drugstore, flapping around, arms overflowing with remedies. He thinks about that little tin. _I wasn’t thinking_, he said. But thinking enough to go to the modest cabinet and select something, not just frantically grab from the shelves. Thinking about what? 

_Thinking about me._

Dean strokes his friend’s head. “Why’d you buy ’em, Jer?”

He covers his face and groans. “_God_, you know why.”

_Don’t make him say it._ “I don’t know, Jer,” he says, teasing. “You bring me all these things to help. What’re they for?”

Jerry peeks at him through his fingers. Dean sees the uncertainty flicker in his eyes and gives him a small smile. _It’s all right_, he thinks, just in case the kid can hear. _Take the out, kid._

“Dean Martin, you don’t know what they’re for? _You_? _You_ don’t know what they’re for. _Jesus_, there must be hundreds of little Dinos runnin’ around.” He laughs to himself. “Well, of course, Catholics—”

Dean kicks him.

“_Abused_! That’s what I am, like a _dog_ I am.”

“Dogs are cuter.”

“Ain’t I cute, Dean?”

“Who says you ain’t?”

And it’s a mistake, but a nice one, because Jerry leaps at him and licks his face. Dean cries out, tries to fend him off, succeeds only in letting the kid fall between his legs. He’s barking and lapping, and Dean’s laughing, coughing, trying to push him off. Boxes and jars and tins spill onto the floor or get crushed as they tangle together. And Dean must really be sick, or maybe he’s just too happy to care, because the kid gets the upper hand easily. Flushed and delirious, he straddles his partner, sitting pretty on his thighs.

“Teach you ta mess wit’ me,” he declares, pinning his arms above his head.

Dean pouts. “Don’t ya like me anymore?”

Jerry blinks, and in his own legitimate voice says, “Do I really sound like that?”

“I’d say it’s a pretty fair impression.” He coughs a little. “I know my partner.”

“How’d you put up with it?” A shadow flickers on his features, and Dean needs desperately for it to clear.

“There are perks,” he says, and without thinking moves his hips. Doesn’t mean it. Not like that. Just wants to move, settle. Regrets it. Immediately. He feels the kid twitch, jerk. _Go back_, he tells himself. _Just one minute, go back a minute, get outta this._

“Paul.” Soft. Scared.

“What?” _Nothing, it was nothing, it’s all right, we’re all—_

“Want I should show you what they’re for?” He’s trembling, so young and sweet and nervous, as he slides a hand down the side of Dean’s shorts.

The door knocks.

The hand hisses out again like it’s been burned – and he’s a character, low voice, hunched, mistrustful pout in place. “Who’s that?”

“Fellas, you in there?”

“Just Dick, Jer.” He’s stroking the kid’s side. Why’s he doing that? “It’s all right.”

“We’re busy,” the kid screeches. “Come back when ya got a warrant!” He turns shining eyes on Dean.

“_Jer_.”

The kid deflates. Then he smiles weakly. “Paul, I… I don’t know—”

“_Shhhh_.” It’s hard to comfort him like this. If the kid would move back a little, Dean could sit up and hold him. But he’s not ready yet; Dean can see he’s got himself in a situation and wants to let him sort that out first. So instead he holds his hand – the one that wasn’t down his shorts a couple seconds ago. “It’s all right, Jer.”

“I got carried away,” he whispers, and he laughs softly. “I forgot…” He shakes his head.

_What did he forget?_ “Don’t worry, Jer.” He calls out, “Just a sec, Dick.” Then softer, “All right to move now?”

Jerry nods, cheeks flushed. He climbs off carefully and sits a minute on the edge of the bed, chewing his fingernail, eyes tightly shut. Dean wants to stroke his back but knows it won’t help right now. _Later_, he thinks, _touch him later_, and shoves it away. He sits up and tries to organise the mess they’ve made. He doesn’t look at the kid, wants him to have a little privacy.

Then the bed creaks, and Dean can relax against the headboard, sipping water and watching his partner let Dick through the door at last. And he’s nice and polite and greets him, but then he opens the window, pulls a pack of cigarettes from his discarded jacket and smokes in silence, staring out with glassy eyes. Dick’s saying… something. Dean doesn’t know. But he’s responding anyway, sort of. Offering a little. He’s sick; he figures he can get away with it now.

He keeps looking at the kid. Checking. With his sleeves rolled up that way and the tie gone – _When’d he take off the tie?_ – he looks older. And that word from earlier crosses his mind again. _Handsome_, he thinks. _Kid looks handsome._

Dick’s still talking: “…see if there was anything I could do, that’s all.”

“We’re doing just fine without you, thank you very much.” Jerry looks at them, hand on hip, right arm crooked and smoke drifting delicately from the cigarette end, ring finger of his right hand smoothing an eyebrow. He’s doing a bit, a little feminine, a little queer. Something in between. Something Dean never has a word for. Easy. Fluid. Like another language. One Dean understands but only speaks brokenly, like everything else. He thinks the kid wants to teach him. Sometimes he thinks he might let him.

“Point of fact,” the kid goes on, picking a speck of tobacco from the end of his tongue, “I almost got to second base.”

Dick almost has a heart attack, while Dean throws caution and an impending coughing fit to the wind in order to tackle his cackling partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reference a couple of my other fics here ("Three Nights in Chicago", "Secret"), but it doesn't matter.


	4. Water

Dean just about resists saying _I told you so._ Kid sees it in his eyes anyway. “Here I was,” he says, hoarse, eyes streaming, “tryna be nice and look after you.” Hacks into a handkerchief. “Thanks I get,” he mumbles. Tries to pout as Dean chuckles, but lets himself be held.

It’s late. Dick didn't stay long, said he had to work something out with the fellas in the band. Jerry stayed all day, not doing much, just keeping him company. Dean dressed. Didn't want to. Wanted the kid to see he was feeling better. Wanted, he supposes, to draw a line under what had happened earlier. His sheets were still a little damp with sweat and Jerry stripped the bed, came back from the hall with fresh linens and made them up for him. Dean felt a little better watching that. Jerry chattered away the whole time, and that made Dean feel better, too. Better motormouthed overcompensation than silent stares and hands slipped in his underwear. The whole thing seems forgotten, and Dean’s not about to remind him. Hopes – the way he always does, only vaguely and a little cruelly – that that’ll be the last time. Kid’ll give up now Dean’s not giving in. Knows that’s impossible. Knows he’s already given in too much.

Thinks about the kid’s tongue in his mouth.

A reminder: Jerry coughs into his handkerchief.

“Shouldn’t happen so quick,” he whines. “Only kissed you yesterday.”

Dean doesn’t mention the night before that, Jerry between the sheets and moving their mouths together, whispering sweet-scary things in the dark before Dean could gently stop him. Says instead: “We spend a lotta time together. I musta been sick already, you caught it before. Took a while to come through, that’s all.”

“Mm.” Jerry huffs against his chest.

Earlier, just as afternoon was turning into evening, and Jerry had coughed into his elbow one too many times, Dean crossed the room and put a hand on his forehead. The kid looked at him a little ruefully and said, “What’s the diagnosis, Doc?”

“Stupidity, mainly,” Dean said and chuckled at the kid’s pout. Frowned as it turned into a cough that turned his sweet face scarlet. “Here.” And began undressing him. Jerry went quiet and watched, and Dean wished he’d make a joke, tell him not to get fresh, that he’s not that kind of girl. Maybe he’s too sick. So he undressed him to his underwear, opened the window a little wider to get a better breeze, and sat him in the bed while he ordered room service. It had come, they had eaten – Jerry not very much and struggling even to drink water; some of the pills he’d brought Dean helped with that – and now the kid's tucked under his arm, burning hot and shivery.

“Paul,” he whispers. Sniffs. Fists his shirt.

“What’s that?”

“Are you feeling better?”

Dean throws back his head and laughs. When he looks again, the kid’s eyes are sparkling in his sallow face.

“Yeah, pretty good,” he says and strokes his hair. “Be all better tomorrow.” And then, quickly so it doesn’t run away from him, “Thanks for lookin’ after me.”

Jerry smiles wanly. “Wanna take care of you.” It’s slurred, muffled in his shirt.

Dean swallows. Moves away a little and looks at his partner. “Stayin’ here tonight?”

Jerry nods. He shuffles close again to bury his face in Dean’s chest.

“What is this?” Dean asks, rubbing the kid’s back.

Jerry only shrugs. He’s doing something there, and as his head tips slightly back Dean sees he’s got one of the buttons between his teeth. He grins around it. Releases it. Lethargically raises his fingers to it. _Ah._ Dean holds gently his wrist, feels the pulse jackrabbiting against his thumb.

The kid’s slick with sweat.

“Tired?” Very soft, as if the kid’s already asleep. Jerry moans and nods. “Shower first,” Dean says. “Then bed.”

“Together?”

“Surely.”

Dean helps him into the bathroom and out of his shorts. Again, no giggle. No comment. Not even a sparkle in his eye. Just a grateful smile, a trembling hand in Dean’s as he climbs into the tub. He seems lost and lonely all at once, blinks blearily at the showerhead and collects the wooden brush from its little hook. Dean watches this. Watches _him_. Thinks about last night, that delirious, awful image of the two of them together. He stumbles back, almost trips over the bathmat.

Jerry’s head turns, slowly. “Where’re you going?”

“Bedroom,” he says. Tries to smile. “Give you some privacy.”

“Don’t want privacy,” he says. “Stay.”

“Jerry, I—”

“What if I drown?” Pouting. Voice rising. The nine-year-old threatening, more honest than usual. Frightened, maybe. Wanting him close.

“I’ll get some peace and quiet.”

Jerry throws the brush at him; it’s a weak, noodle-armed throw, and the brush clatters useless to the floor.

So. Maybe he won’t drown. But if his legs are as weak as his arms, he might fall, and that’d be bad enough. Dean collects the brush. Helps his weak little boy sit on the edge of the tub and sits with him, Jerry's feet inside and Dean's out. He puts the mat on the floor behind him to catch the water. Sitting this way, Jerry is all knees and elbows, angular joints and spikes, ribs like fingers on a sheet of cloth. No meat on these bones, save the part of him perched on the porcelain. Good thing, too, and even still Dean worries he’ll go sliding into the tub, so wraps an arm around his waist. Jerry blinks and raises his head. Fingers come again to Dean’s buttons. “It’ll get wet,” he says, and Dean says, “Got other shirts.” And washes him. Sluices water over his head with a cup. Wets a cloth in the sink and wipes sweat away. Then the soap, suds in his hair, on his back and chest, and Dean leans forward to get his legs, and his boy’s so good he doesn’t even flinch when Dean parts his thighs to work there, and then on his hips, the sweet dips of his pelvis, but giggles a little when Dean works on his armpit hair, sweet dark tufts, still a shock like the thatch on his bony chest. Like the curly dark patch further down. Dean shakes his head, takes the brush and works on Jerry’s back now, water pattering to the mat, rolling and bumping down the kid’s spine. Dean’s hand sits there, high up, and then a finger tracing the prominent knobs of his spine to the base, where the skin erupts into gooseflesh that ripples up and out, around, capturing the kid in a violent shiver. Dean strokes thoughtfully the skin low down on his back, as far down as he dares, and Jerry sighs and leans against him. Coughs weakly. Water bleeds through Dean’s shirt, clinging, but he doesn’t care. Thinks distantly how it might be if he'd done as the kid wanted and taken off his shirt. Maybe his pants too. And holding him, skin to skin, like they do in bed sometimes. That's different, Dean knows. Thinks he knows. More like playing Dad and looking after him at night. In case of bad dreams. Awake, though, and nearly naked - or fully, in the kid's case - would be different. He swallows the lump in his throat. His left arm is still wrapped around Jerry's waist, holding loosely. He's so skinny Dean can almost circle him. Knows the kid likes that idea. His right hand strokes feather-light up his boy's spine to where short coarse hair meets skin at the nape of his neck; Jerry shudders and gasps, fingers twisting in Dean's shirt. Not fair, really, doing this to him. Not when he's sick. But really, Dean doesn't know _how_ he's doing it. Not even looking at each other, facing separate ways, but his boy worked up and all Dean's fault. _All my fault_, he thinks and kisses the dip of his collar bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter; I meant for it to be longer but this feels like a nice place to stop. Thanks so much for reading <3


	5. Bed

The kid’s saying his name. So soft and sweet. Dean doesn’t know what to do with that. He doesn’t know what to do with his mouth, either; it rests now against his boy’s shoulder. Still damp. A little soap. Lavender. Something like that. He tastes it in the back of his throat. It’s nice. Nice to have his friend like this. Sick and tired but clean now, relaxed. And smelling so pretty, too. Prettier than oranges at least. He chuckles at this. Thinks about hours lost in front of the mirror getting it just so. Thinks about how young he was. This last makes him raise his head.

Jerry’s looking at him. Huge and shining pupils. His gaze drops to Dean’s mouth.

“Jer.”

Air sucked between his teeth; a shudder, and focus coming back to his eyes. Blinking. Smiling. A little shy.

“All done, I think,” Dean whispers and reaches for a towel. Drapes it over Jerry’s shoulders. “Manage without me?”

The kid pulls the towel tight around himself, hunched a little. But he’s smiling as wide as he can feeling so sick. “Never,” he says softly, and Dean tweaks the tip of his nose. Then he leaves him in the bathroom, listens to his shuddering coughs. Takes off his shirt, translucent now, and throws it in the corner along with his pants. He goes to the window and pulls it almost closed, just enough for a nice breeze. They can sleep without the comforter – or any sheets, if the kid’s too hot.

He sits on the bed to wait and finds his gaze drawn to the nightstand. Rests a hand there. Runs a thumb along the groove above the drawer.

_Want I should show you what they’re for?_

Dean’s stomach drops. He closes his eyes, feels his jaw go tight. Suddenly he can’t fill his lungs, can’t make anything cooperate. Something cold and hard tightens in his chest. _Whadaya doin’, kid?_

The bathroom door opens. Dean looks at his partner, wrapped up with the towel pinned under his armpits. Another, smaller towel for a turban. Dean chuckles, watches Jerry beam. Watches his eyes go to Dean’s hand, still resting on the nightstand.

He thinks how easy it would be to end this. One harsh word, a cruel lie. A flinch. Eyes filling. A kid – his partner, his friend – rejected and hurt. Dean could do it. Could tell him he’s mistaken. Tell him he’s confused. He did that before and hated it. It was different then. He _was_ confused. And lonely. And too young. And Dean himself had no idea about any of this. Even now he’s mostly in the dark. He thinks letting him down easy wouldn’t do it. There’d be hope there, maybe. His fault. His fault for letting it get this far. For getting caught up in it. But that was easy, too. When the kid gets going – _really_ gets going – there’s something irresistible about him. It’s impossible to say no. To not let him hold your hand and go skipping down Broadway. To not let him in your bed when he’s sad or scared or just because that’s where he wants to sleep tonight. To not let him get carried away and leave a bruise with an enthusiastic mouth.

Dean thinks sometimes that letting Jerry do what he wants is the easiest thing in the world.

The kid’s taken the towel off his head, and Dean looks away before the other one comes off. Still absently stroking the nightstand.

_Want I should show you…?_

It’s different for Jerry. Dean knows a little about what it was like for him before. Jerry’s told him some of it. Other stuff he figured out himself or gleaned from backstage whispers. He knows Jerry wants to tell him everything, but the thought of that makes Dean want to go for a very long walk. He knows sometimes his little partner will gush about a girl he meets after a show. And sometimes he’ll shrug and smile and yes, he met someone and went somewhere and did something, but you don’t wanna hear about that, bubbe. And Dean doesn’t want to hear about it. Wants to know sometimes that everything was all right, and he’ll ask. And Jerry will offer that same smile and yes, it was all right, Paul. Don’t worry.

He worries anyway.

Jerry’s pulled on a pair of Dean’s boxer shorts. Dean watches him take two aspirin then hack into his handkerchief.

“Ugh.” He shudders. “Already I’m shvitzing again.” He crawls on to the bed, looks up at Dean with doleful eyes. “You all right, bubbe?”

Dean nods and strokes his partner’s hair. “Christ, you weren’t kiddin’.” He wipes his hand on the sheet. Jerry huffs and sticks out his tongue. Even that seems too much for him. Yawning, he paws Dean’s leg. “What is this?” Dean asks.

“Light,” he says. “Please.”

Dean chuckles and obliges, snapping off the lamp and leaving them in almost complete darkness. Bluish silver light filters through the curtains, making Jerry look even paler. Still pawing. Wanting him closer. _Lie down, Paul._

He doesn’t lie down. But he watches him. Strokes his hair, his brow. The nape of his neck. Like flicking a switch: he shudders, mutters softly, his body relaxes. Completely.

Dean knew one of them. One of the fellas. An older guy – what else? He didn’t know much about the whole thing, but realised it was something new for Jerry. Not permanent, but consistent. Once Dean watched them say goodnight, watched his boy kiss this fella’s mouth. And Dean didn’t know much about this part of his friend but he _was_ his friend, so he knew a little. Knew they weren’t always so nice as this. So once they were alone and Dean didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know what – if anything – had been said, and he had the guy up against a wall. _If you hurt my boy_, he said, but nothing else, because that was enough. Good thing, too. He didn’t have any more words for that. Couldn’t think where those came from. And not long after that the kid alone again, hiding his face in his neck. _I guess we broke up._

He shudders now. His partner, sleeping, stirs and reaches for him. Dean sees himself climb out of the bed. _Let him reach_, he thinks. Let him reach and find the bed empty.

Awful, he thinks. _Not that._

So he slides gently down to be closer. Doesn’t hold him, though that’s what he wants even in his half-dreaming state. Too hot for that. Too close. Already Dean feels a hundred elevator doors slamming on his head. Tangled up with a sweaty, clingy boy wouldn’t do much good now. He laughs silently. Thinks a sweaty, clingy tangle is exactly the kind of thing his boy might like.

Not Dean, though. Jerry’s sweet and a friend, and yes, sometimes they do things. Sometimes Jerry does things and Dean doesn’t stop him. But then he does – he _always_ stops him. Because a part of him thinks Jerry doesn’t know. Isn’t sure. Hasn’t figured out yet that he doesn’t need to do those things if he wants Dean to stay.

Another part of him knows better than that.

Still. He doesn’t blame Jerry for wanting that. The way he is, and how close they are, Dean can’t pretend he doesn’t understand. He’s not even a bit mad, and looking at him now, snuffling in his sleep, long eyelashes catching the silvery light, he realises he never could be. Not about that. How could he be mad? His best friend loves him. Who could be mad about that?

_Put a stop to it_, he thinks. _He loves you and that’s fine, but he doesn’t understand, so put a stop to it before you hurt him worse than all the other hurt he’s already had._

It’s different for Dean. Maybe Jerry doesn't know it yet. But it _is_ different for Dean.

And as he drifts off, he almost believes that.


	6. Park

Dean wakes to a room awash in gold. It’s barely seven, but the sun’s been out for over an hour, and a cool breeze sways the curtains. At some point in the night they kicked the top sheet to the foot of the bed, and now Dean can feel heat beating from his skinny partner and the damp mattress below. Jerry rolled over in his sleep. Curled up like a baby. Dean counts the knobs of his spine. Knows he’ll have to wake him soon but just wanting to look for a while. Listen. Ragged breaths and muttering. Nothing bad, he thinks. Sometimes Jerry moans or cries out. Sometimes just quietly begs or weeps. Not today. Just talking soft. Dean can’t make out the words.

Then the kid’s convulsed with coughing and shocks himself awake. The handkerchief’s still in his sweaty grasp. He sets about hacking his guts into it while Dean fetches him some water from the bathroom. Helps him drink it. Slow, so he doesn’t choke. They put the half-empty glass on the nightstand; it drips and leaves a ring. Jerry sniffs and moans. Blows his nose into the handkerchief. Looks miserably up at his partner.

“Feel like shit.”

“Been there, pally.” He strokes his hair. “Be worse before it’s better, but you’ll be fine. Look at me.” He raises his arms to flex his muscles. Takes a huge breath through blissfully clear sinuses. Jerry laughs thickly. “One bad day, kid, that’s all.”

“Mm.” He tries to put his arms around Dean’s waist.

“Wash first,” Dean says, moving away from the bed. Keeps a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll feel better.”

Jerry rubs his face. “Wanna hug you.”

“I know, kid, but trust me, okay?” He touches his face. Tickles lightly his chin. Wanting a smile. Which he gets – a good one, too; the kid fights a losing battle with the twitching corners of his mouth. “Go on, Jer, be a good boy.”

A split-second: wide hazel eyes and a slack jaw; drooped shoulders; and a lost, obedient gaze.

Then traipsing to the bathroom, coughing like an old engine. Dean watches him go. Then he follows the kid’s earlier example and strips the bed. Won’t fetch fresh sheets like Jerry did; he’ll leave that to the maid.

“Dean.”

He looks up. The kid’s peeking round the bathroom door.

“What’s wrong?” Maybe nothing _wrong_, exactly, but something not quite right if he’s calling him that.

“Can I take a bath?”

“Not worried about drowning?”

“Mm.” He pushes his face into the wood. “Come sit with me.”

“In the bath?”

He giggles, then spends a good ten seconds coughing weakly. “In the bathroom,” he says. “Come sit.”

“You can manage without me.”

Jerry huffs. But he nods and closes the door. After a second, he locks it.

Something definitely not quite right.

But Dean pushes that thought clean out the now wide-open window and quickly pulls on a clean shirt and pants. Their clothes from yesterday he scoops up and deposits across the hall in the kid’s room. Let Jerry make arrangements for that when he’s better. On his way back out, he pauses. Isn’t sure why. He goes to sit on the bed, neatly made and unused for a night. Stroking the comforter, he looks around the room, identical to his own save the kid’s personal touches: a black notebook by the phone, no doubt full of names and numbers and the act’s entire schedule for the next six months; his new tux hanging from the bathroom door; and on the dresser sits evidence of Jerry’s newest hobby, tucked safely away in their cases.

Dean gets up. Feels nosy. Two brown leather cases, one with a long strap to hang around the neck. Dean runs it through his fingers. Jerry fairly burst with excitement when he got them. Pushed Dean bodily on to the bed and stood before him. “A lesson, Dino,” he said and explained how they worked. Photographs, first. Jerry showed him the film. The cannister rattled and clicked into place. Jerry took pictures of him. Had him pose by the window. Then went quiet and red and turned his attention to the other camera. They went out and Jerry had Dean walk up and down the street outside the venue while he used the other camera to film him. Colour, he said. He showed Dean how to work it so he could film Jerry, too. Dean knew why the kid wouldn’t have a passer-by film them together.

Quite frankly, none of the technical stuff made a lick of sense to Dean, but Jerry’s eyes had lit up like bonfires and didn’t die down ’til morning, and that was enough.

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. And his gaze drifts a little, slides from the leather case to some paper folded beneath it. Didn’t notice it before. Without thinking, he moves the camera to see what it is. Smiles to himself. A letter to Patti. Typed a couple nights ago, Dean thinks. One huge chunk with no breaks except to sign off. Lots of crossings-out and arrows pointing to new words. Underlining, too. Ellipses like lines of ants. Dean doesn’t feel quite so nosy now but spots his name:

_don’t know how I ever get through a week without you, but I feel so happy and secure with Dean even now he’s sick with a cold....and I think in such close quarters inevitably I’ll be sick too and we’ll look after each other...._

There’s more about him there, but he can’t read it. Carefully folds it, weighs it down again with the camera and, after grabbing a clean pair shorts for the kid, hurries back across the hall.

Jerry’s still in the bathroom. Dean puts an ear to the door: there’s splashing going on so at least he hasn’t drowned. While he smokes by the window, the maid comes in. Almost ducks out again, but Dean says it fine and lets her go about her business. The kid’s towels from last night are bundled on the dresser, and the maid replaces them. Dean smiles at her and she goes. He crushes the cigarette on the windowsill. Thinks he’ll have to knock on the door and take a towel in. Can’t have the kid catching cold on top of cold.

There’s no answer after the first knock. No splashing now. Dean frowns. Doesn’t like the idea of barging in, but the door’s locked anyway. He knocks again.

“Jer?”

Nothing still.

_Christ, the_ pazzo _really did fall asleep in there._ It’s easy to picture, Jerry limp and dozing. Sliding under the water.

Dean knocks louder. “Jer? Got a fresh towel, kid, can ya open up?”

Silence. Less than five seconds but it drags. Dean’s eyes flick from handle to hinges. Door opens out, but he thinks he could force it the other way. _Knows_ he could force it.

But then, the kid’s voice: “Sure, Paul.”

The lock clicks. Dean takes a step back but doesn’t have to go far; the door only opens wide enough for the kid to stick his hand through.

Dean holds it.

Jerry’s head pokes out. His hair’s spiked damp. He looks at their joined hands, and then at Dean’s face. “Where’s the towel?” His eyes narrow. “Or are you just tryna catch me in my birthday suit?”

“Oh, but it’s such a nice suit,” Dean says.

Jerry looks at the floor, bashful. Joking. But Dean sees the smile change. He’s loath to let go of his hand but he’s promised him a towel. Handing it over, he casually asks, “What took you so long?”

“Mm?”

“I was knockin’.”

“Oh.” A slight flush colours his cheekbones. “Well, I…” He starts picking at the wood around the lock. “I wasn’t… ready. Yet.”

“Ah-ha.” Dean folds his arms, rocks back on his heels. “Musta been a real nice bath.”

The blush deepens. “Oh, sure. Real nice.”

“Nice for you,” Dean says. He’s teased him enough maybe. “Here I was ready to break down the door.”

“Huh?”

“What is this, _Huh_? All this talk about drowning and then you don’t answer when I call you?”

The colour practically falls from Jerry’s face. “Oh, God! Dino, I didn’t even—” It goes hoarse and tight; he coughs into the towel.

“You didn’t think,” Dean finishes. “Yeah, I know.” He sighs. “Look, Jer, I’m not mad. I just…” He scratches the back of his head. “Look. It’s fine. But you know, no bath’s so nice that you can’t answer when I call you.” He pats his cheek. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I’m ashamed.” And he shuts the door again. Unlocked, this time, but Dean won’t go in there. Can’t. Instead stands frozen. Staring. It’s a bit. Must be. They’ve done it enough times. But isn’t there always a bit of truth in that for the kid? In everything. Truth in the Idiot, the nine-year-old. Truth in Dean playing Brother or Dad or something else. Truth in shame, too. Always that little bit beneath it all.

Dean shakes his head. He goes back to the window and lights another cigarette. Stares out. Across the street the Park is filling. It’s early, but warm and clear, and from his window Dean can see sparkles of sunlight on water through the trees. Wants to swim in that. Suddenly the room feels too small. Even the open window can't help. Dean half believes he could reach out behind himself and feel his knuckles slam into a wall that should be feet away. Half believes he might not even be able to reach out. Might start to move and feel his shoulders pinned. His chest and back squeezed. Not even able to turn his head or speak. Or breathe.

_Breathe._

He coughs. Pitches the cigarette. His breath comes but laboured. One deep whooping sigh then nothing. Can’t. Can’t fill his lungs.

_Can’t breathe._

The kid touches him.

Dean jerks around. Jerry’s eyes are wide, uncertain. He’s wearing the shorts Dean brought him.

“Paul, you’re all right.”

Dean can tell the kid wants to touch him again, wants to stand close and hold him maybe. But he’s keeping back now. Understanding.

“Yeah,” Dean manages, and touches his bare waist briefly. It goes a little way to grounding him but not far enough. “Listen, kid. Gonna step out for a minute, okay?”

“Sure. I’ll be all right.” He smiles. “Sick and sad and missing you,” he adds, exaggerated misery twisting his face. “But all right.” His smile’s back. “Feel better,” he says and takes the hand that touched his waist and kisses it.

Dean puts on his shoes and grabs a jacket. Might not need it. Figures he can go without a tie today. Thinks it’d only choke him. He turns back at the door to see the kid crawling into bed, handkerchief clutched and ready. He’s muttering softly, snuggling down. He takes two aspirin from the bottle on the nightstand and looks up at Dean. He smiles wanly. Flaps his hand goodbye.

Dean flaps back.

He doesn’t linger in the hall. Goes skirting round the elevators and down the stairs in record time. He’s going so fast the doorman barely has a chance to open it. Dean doesn’t notice.

Cool air and sunlight wash over him, and he stands a minute on the sidewalk, breathing deeply. So his lungs are cooperating. That’s a start. He pulls on the jacket now and lights up. Blowing smoke, he sets off down 59th, walking less than a minute before he crosses over to the Park. People pass by. Not many. Dean figures Mass keeps most away on Sunday mornings. Older women – grandmothers or aunts – holding the chubby hands of tiny children, marching towards the rocks. An ancient man walking an equally ancient Cocker Spaniel under beech trees.

Dean turns right, descends the stone steps and stands at the low, curved wall overlooking the lake. _Pond,_ he corrects himself. A big Pond, but a Pond nonetheless. Scrubby greenery below, and beyond that water, shaded by trees: the sun came up behind them. But rainbow shafts filtering through. Pretty. He looks to the right, where the trees curve away and the water sits like a mirror, open to the sun. Reflected: buildings reaching down into a clear sky, rounded green trees, a little brown in the water. Dean looks further still, and up, and can see their hotel. Just. Blocked off by beeches.

He walks further down the path, approaching the hotel. Ducks quack and slip into the Pond. Dean pictures the kid throwing chunks of bread for them. Shakes his head to clear that. He sits on a dark green bench and tips back his head. The sun’s fully on him here, the Pond wide enough for a clear swathe of blue sky in between the treetops. Nice place to sit. All the times Dean’s been here and never found this spot. Perfect. Solitary. Save the old man walking slowly with his arms behind his back. He nods at Dean.

Of course, most times Dean’s been here, he hasn’t been alone. He remembers days of baseball, the kid pitching. Or maybe shortstop or standing outfield. Runs like the wind, that boy, but can’t hit for shit. Or couldn’t then. Dean figures the other fellas’ joking was enough to get Jerry practising. Dean was the catcher. Really any position that meant he could stay in one place and watch and smoke. Think about napping in the shade of an oak tree. Would do it, too, after the game. Stretch out with his hands behind his head. Sit chatting (mostly listening – and mostly not even that) to the other fellas and drift off. Jerry’d come over and put his head on Dean’s stomach. People laughed.

Dean laughed, too, and fell asleep with that warm pressure on his belly.

He sighs. Crushes a cigarette with his heel. He glances towards the hotel again, almost completely obscured by leaves. He feels better now. Lighter. Still a little tight in his chest but that’s something else entirely.

He starts heading back the way he came, passes the steps and keeps right on into the Park, heading north. Thinks the baseball field was near the carousel. Wants to wander around there until his chest feels loose.

He thinks about the kid. Seventeen years old. Baseball cap squashing his pompadour. A wide grin and a gap between two teeth. Dean remembers another fella – his name’s gone now, but he doubts he ever really knew it – raising an eyebrow when Jerry said he’d pitch. “What I hear, he’s more of a catcher,” he said, elbowing Dean. The kid was far enough away not to hear it, and Dean himself wasn’t sure what the fella meant but caught the tone. Told him to knock it off. Must have sounded pretty serious if the colour draining from the guy’s face meant anything. He kept away from Dean the whole game.

Sonny explained it to him later and Dean wished he’d knocked the fella’s teeth out. Would have if he’d come back, but one game must have been enough.

Christ, but how many teeth has he knocked out for that? How many black eyes has he given? Frankly, Dean’s not sure why he does it. Kid never asked him to. Matter of fact, Dean thinks the kid might prefer it if he didn’t, even if his eyes light up when Dean throws some _teppista_ over the bar. Back then, it made sense to Dean that anybody talking that way about a kid deserved whatever was coming to them. But Jerry’s not a kid anymore, not really. And now if someone says something, they’re not only saying it about Jerry.

Dean stops in the middle of the path.

_Breathe._

He’s not made it far from his bench, the Pond. Still shaded comfortably in this narrow path, one more curve until it opens out. No bench here, though. Nothing to fall on to. So he leans against a lamppost and takes off his jacket. Claws at the knot of an invisible tie.

_Can’t breathe._

He looks back. Up. The trees are denser here, but their hotel’s so tall its head pokes up easily beyond them. It feels strange and wrong suddenly. To be so close to a city yet surrounded by so much green. This much life breathing into you. Dean can picture something better. Open fields. Space to walk or ride or golf. Trees, sure, but further out. Away. If he wants them. But space. And no exhaust fumes or engines or great ugly stone scars on the sky. No old ladies with chubby toddlers or ancient men with ancient dogs. There can be dogs, but not ancient. Young and free. Boundless energy. Horses, too. Huge and proud. Thundering hooves throwing up dust or clods of earth. Dean washing their tired flanks at the end of a hard day’s ride. He can see it all so clear despite the hotel in his line of sight he thinks if he left now and started walking he could find it. Easy.

So he starts walking.


	7. Window

He doesn’t stop for an hour. Strolling. Slow and steady despite the tightness in his chest. It passes. He stays in the park until he can fill his lungs. Finds the old baseball field and smokes in the shade of a tree. Ignores his trembling hands as best he can. The image of the ranch is fading. Flickering at the edges of his vision. Streaks of warm light. He almost turns his head to catch them. Keep them. Lets them go and keeps on walking. Knows he can go back there. Maybe even _go_ there. _For real_, comes his little partner's voice. Once all this is done. When the kid’s better and the next few shows are over. Wide open spaces and horses and green green grass and no one talking to or touching him or wanting something he can’t give and thinking they get it when he nods and smiles because words don’t make sense to him right now. He crushes the cigarette. Pulls on the jacket again. Yes, one day. One day no jackets and shirts and dress pants and shiny shoes. Not because he hates all that. Some of it he likes. The sweating and singing and dancing and playfighting and screaming laughter all around he likes. His boy he loves. Loves somehow. Loves him in a way that makes him buy a box of popcorn from a stand near the carousel to take back to him. Loves him in a way that makes him twinge a little guiltily at the thought of running off to some ranch. Because in this peaceful daydream his boy is nowhere. Someplace else. Far away and waiting, maybe. Hoping he’ll come back.

So he’s coming back. He’s passing near his Pond again and mounting the steps two at a time because he’s lighter now. Breathing easy. Sun-warmed curls heating his whole body. Jacket flapping pleasantly around him. Popcorn nestled underneath his arm. He’s coming back. It’s later now and post-church crowds are wandering past. Boys in shorts, their knees ripe to be skinned. Mothers flapping after them. Fathers boosting little girls on to their shoulders. And Dean against this wave and out the other side, across the street. Coming back. And knowing somehow his boy will not be in bed where he left him but maybe that’s all right. Maybe he can pick him up and put him there. Maybe now they’re both a little better they can—

“Hiya Deanie!”

He almost drops the popcorn. Head snaps up. Knowing already. And his boy perched on the windowsill, camera glued to his face. Takes a picture and lets it fall, held by the leather strap. Then raises both hands to wave like a man drowning. Flushed and shiny – even from here, three storeys down, Dean can see that. Half-naked, too. Medallion glinting. Face ecstatic. Gleaming.

And Dean below. Slack-jawed.

“I _missed_ you!” He tips forwards. Out. Dean yells. Drops the box. Popcorn bursting from its seams on to the concrete. A crazy, awful image of his boy plummeting to the sidewalk and Dean not there in time to catch him. And then arms wrapped around Jerry’s waist, hauling him back. A hint of curly hair with him and cries and shouts and curses. Jerry screeching. Disappearing into the room.

Dick’s head pokes out. Eyes so wide it’s almost funny. Then he’s gone again. Dean feels thunder where his face should be. He stands frozen. Staring. Then in a flash he’s through the doors and up the stairs and bursting into his room to see not just Dick but Lou, too, both of them panting and stricken, and Dean about to speak when Jerry explodes from nowhere and everywhere at once and slams into him. Kisses him huge and wet on the cheek.

“Get offa me!”

Jerry steps back. Almost jumps. Colour drained. Stares at Dean like he’s been hit. And Christ maybe it would have been better if he’d never come back. Headed out for some fresh air and just _gone_. 

“Jesus.” He rubs his face. “Just – just sit down.”

Jerry sits on the bed. Dean rounds on the others. “What the fuck are you doin’?” Balls his fists to keep from grabbing them. Shaking them. Knocking their heads together. Wants to scream. Get all the eloquent rage out of his head. Wants to tell them _You know if he dies you’re out of a job._ But then if he dies so is Dean. If he dies what the fuck will Dean have left then?

He doesn’t know what he says to get them to leave but they go. Tails between their legs. Dean slams the door behind them and turns to Jerry. Pathetic eyes and twisting his hands together. Shivering, too. Legs juddering.

“C’mon, Paul, I—”

“Nice way to welcome me back, my partner dead on the sidewalk. I leave you alone for two hours and this is what I come back to? Jesus, Jerry, you’re sick, whadaya even doin’ outta bed, for crissakes. And having guests over, too? What is this, room service not enough, you want a little show while you eat?”

“We were having a meeting.”

“A _meeting_?” He barks laughter. “A meeting he says. A meeting for _what_? The shows are cancelled, Jer. _You_ cancelled ’em. We finished here.”

“I know, but I wanted to—”

“You’re killing me, you know that? You’re killing your partner.”

Jerry pouts. Bows his head. Looks up at Dean through long, long lashes. Dean’s back to trembling. Back to hitching lungs and balled fists. He breathes hard into his hands and lets them drop. Has to walk away from Jerry then, throw his jacket on to the chair. He goes to the window and looks at the mess the popcorn made on the sidewalk. Pigeons flapping, scattering from pedestrians and coming back. Like they forget. He thumps his knuckles on the windowsill.

“Paul.”

Dean looks at him.

“I’m sorry.”

He knows. He nods and cuts his hand through the air. _Finished._

Jerry bites his fingernail and gets on to his knees. “Come here.”

Dean goes. Sighs. Sits with him on the bed. Jerry holds him. Gently at first. As though he’s not quite sure yet if he’s allowed any more. Then his arms tighten. He squeezes firm and nuzzles Dean’s neck.

“Don’t be mad, bubbe.”

Dean chuckles. “Mad? You scared the shit outta me.” He means for it to come out light and teasing. Instead it’s hoarse. Almost nothing. Eyes closed, he sees again his boy slipping from the window. He swallows. Gropes and finds one bony elbow. Holds it. Feels fingers on his face. Turning his head just slightly. Jerry’s lips slip against his mouth for a second, then his cheeks and eyelids. His brow. And whispering, too. Soft apologies. _Anything_, he says. _Whatever you want._

Dean pushes him away a little. “I want you alive, Jerry. All right?” He looks closely at him. At his sweet uncertain face. Trembling mouth. At red-rimmed eyes and pupils too big for his irises. He sticks on that. Thinks about the shaking and juddering limbs. Throwing himself around the room and almost out the window.

“Jerry, are you on something?”

He brightens. “Sure! I was takin' aspirin but it wasn’t helping so I got Dick to bring me some uppers. I feel good now.” He beams and kisses soundly Dean’s mouth.

Dean holds his arms. “How many’d ya take?”

“Mm.” He hums and starts to count on his fingers.

“_Jer_.” One sharp shake. Fingers digging too hard maybe into bony arms.

“Only two, Paulie,” he says and tries to kiss him again. “I’m all right, bubbe. But you can keep bein’ rough if you wanna.”

“Christ.” Dean lets him go. “Why – why d’ya do that?”

“Do what?” All wide eyed-innocence and fingers on Dean’s thigh. “I’m only playing, Paul.”

Dean sighs again and covers his face. The kid shuffles behind him. Holds his shoulders. Massages gently. Dean wants to tell him to stop. Wants to want that. Wants to hate the kid for coming closer, sitting with his legs around Dean now. Thumbs and fingers still at work and humming low and soft. Wants to be shocked by the hard thing pressing into the small of his back. Wants to stop those long deft fingers slipping down his front and working on his shirt buttons. Wants to hate the hot breath on the back of his neck.

He doesn’t hate it. Any of it. Thinks he should. Especially when he’s nowhere near where the kid is. Here’s this boy. Tongue on the nape of his neck. Hips circling behind him. And Dean feeling none of it. Not even sure if he _wants_ to feel it. He’s tired and his friend is sick and high and almost died, and now he wants – what? He wants to make it up to him. He wants to make him feel better. And Dean thinking he’d grown out of that sad need to please whichever person he may have hurt. And please this way, too. It’s amazing, really. How quick this boy switches. Dean imagines Jerry exists in a state between sleep and sex. Everything is sex for Jerry if he’s not unconscious. Sucking down milkshakes or popping pills or dragging laughter from guts. All of it, Dean thinks, gets him het up the way heavy petting might for a regular fella. Hardly anything has Jerry almost undone. 

Dean’s to blame, for some of it. Maybe most of it. He hasn’t exactly made it clear to the kid that he doesn’t want this. Once or twice he’s been carried away. Or rather, the kid’s been carried away and carried Dean right with him. Once or twice in hotel rooms after shows, both sweating and drunk on the laughter, the lights, each other, Dean’s seen no reason to stop him. No reason not to lie down with him. Let him feel good for five minutes. And stop him, then. Before he goes too far. Before the kid embarrasses himself. Apologises for nothing, or worse, for something so nice Dean hasn’t the words for it.

“Jerry.” Gently, he takes the kid’s hand from inside his shirt where it’s been making itself at home. Tracing circles on his chest. “Jerry, what is this?”

“Helping,” Jerry says. He tightens the grip with his thighs and presses closer still.

“I don’t need help.”

“Then help me,” he says. Giggles. Kisses where Dean’s hair meets skin on the nape of his neck. “I’m all het up.”

“I can see that.” Easy. Reasonable. He extricates himself from Jerry and stands. Takes a moment before looking at him.

Jerry’s touching himself through his shorts. Eyes wide and dark and full lips parted.

“Don’t do that, Jer.” A whisper. No moisture in his mouth.

“Why not?” But his hand’s stopped.

“Well, that’s not a nice thing to do in public.”

“Not in public,” Jerry says. “I’ll do for you if you want.”

Dean swallows. “I don’t want,” he says. “I want you to lie down and go to sleep. That’s what I want.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Jerry, please.”

The kid puts his hand on the mattress. Shuffles. Uncomfortable. Aching no doubt and Dean pointedly looking at his face.

“Paul, just once.” He wets his lips. Voice so low it’s almost nothing. Outside voices and cars passing and a cool breeze and sunlight and here two men and one wanting something the other can’t give and nobody out there the wiser. “You never touched me before.” He reaches for him.

And there are no words for this. Nothing a nice Catholic boy should know. _Ha_, comes Jer’s phantom voice from a better time. _If you’re a nice Catholic boy then I’m the Pope!_ And even still, Dean doesn’t know this. What are you supposed to say when your friend asks you to do this for him? He almost laughs then. Figures most friends don’t ask this of each other. Figures whatever kind of friendship he and Jerry has isn’t something he’d read about in Sunday school. And doesn't want to think of Jerry like that anyway. Doesn't want to put him with the fellas who made passes at him. Fellas Dean had to politely decline. Fellas he had to make a scene over if anybody noticed. Fellas looking sad and lost and young like Jerry. And Dean? Dean not knowing where he fit in all this. Saying no and going home. Not to a girl or to a boy but to a bed.

A boy's here now, though. And Dean not knowing if that changes anything.

He falls into the chair by the window. Buries his head in his hands. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t.” He looks up at him. Feels wretched and awful and hateful and like the most terrible friend in the world. “Jer,” he says. Almost begs. “Don’t make me say no to you.”


	8. Card

Once, when Dean was very small, his mother wanted pictures taken. She dressed him. Combed his hair special. She posed him next to Bill. Two boys in Sunday best. Ma’s focus on his brother’s dirty face, Dean hopped off his perch. Left something in the other room, maybe. Wanted to stretch his legs. Awkward positioning for a child, one leg crossed. Or maybe saw something out the open window and suddenly his brother and his mother and the man with the camera didn’t exist anymore. Not for long. His mother put him back. Posed him again. Promised him a little _sopresa_ if he sat nice and quiet until the photograph was done. Dean sat nice and quiet. The photograph was done. He hopped off his perch again and made for the door. Felt the air move. A sharp sting on the back of his thigh. And stumbling then. Blinking confusion. Outside watched his brother tumble and cartwheel in the grass. Sat fidgeting for a while then stood. Ran after him. Shedding itchy layers. Air cool and tingling on his leg. A hot patch soothed to nearly nothing as he flew and fell through air. Two boys splashing in dirty water.

He never got his treat.

Jerry looks now how Dean felt then. Frowning hurt and brain working. Figuring it out. No escape from this though. No grass to run and roll in. He wouldn’t run anyway. Wouldn’t let this be just another thing he didn’t understand. The kid’s braver than that. Stupider than that. Even now, sliding a pillow into his lap, bottom lip trapped in his teeth, he’s thinking hard about all this. And Dean staring at the floor. Fingers flexing. Part of him wanting the kid to drop it now and let it die. Another part hoping he drags whatever it is out of him.

“You’re not in the mood?”

Dean sags. Looks at him. Jerry’s smiling. Soft and a little cowed. Head inclined and slightly tilted.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Not in the mood.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Sorry, kid.”

He shrugs. Laughs low in his throat. Eyes averted. “’Sall right. You don’t hafta be in the mood.” Looks at him now. Something new in his eyes.

Dean clears his throat. Takes a moment to light two cigarettes and get both started. He stands at last and hands one to Jerry, who smiles up at him. Grins and beams and practically glows when Dean ruffles his hair. He wriggles and hums. Puffs madly at the cigarette. Cheeks hollowed with suction. He blows smoke at Dean's face; he grimaces and leans away. Jerry giggles. Clambers to his knees and puts his arms around Dean’s waist. Nuzzles his belly. The pillow tumbles softly to the floor. And Jerry whispers something into his shirt. Just two words. Repeating them.

He lets go then. Puts the cigarette between his lips again. Opens wide and swallows it. Dean sticks out his tongue and shudders. And Jerry grinning. Eyes narrowed and streaming. He opens up again and rolls the cigarette back into place. Dean takes it and flicks it out the window.

“Can’t be trusted,” he says.

Jerry pouts. “Just a trick, Paul. I saw a fella do it once. He did it with whisky too.” He picks ash from his tongue.

“You’ll burn your mouth.” Dean leans down. He gently cups the kid’s chin. Feels it fall into his palm. Mouth a soft oval. He peers inside. No marks. “Lucky, that’s all.” He pats his cheek. Then folds his arms and frowns. “With _whisky_ too?”

“Yeah!” He hops off the bed and fetches a glass of water from the bathroom. “Had the cigarette in his mouth and drank whisky at the same time. Like this.” He clamps the rim between his teeth. Then bends his knees, slowly folding himself back. Lowers to the floor. Already Dean can see where this is going. Already he’s trembling with suppressed giggles. Teeth snagging his top lip. But he stays quiet and waits. Arms folded. And sure enough, water tips and spills and maybe some of it even makes it into the kid’s mouth. Most of it’s in his nose and ears and on the floor and Dean’s collapsed on the bed. Clutching his stomach and whooping laughter.

He can just make out his spluttering, indignant partner – upright now – through the tears.

“Th-that part of the bit too?” Dean wipes his eyes.

“Well, _obviously_ I ain’t practised enough.” He pouts. “Stop laughing, _you_ couldn’t do it.”

“Makes two of us!” Dean giggles and tries to stand upright. Digs out the handkerchief from his jacket on the chair and wipes his face. Holds it out to Jerry, who snatches it and dries off as best he can.

Dean sits on the bed. Laughter tapering. He’s getting hungry. Figures the kid is too. Not well enough yet to wander outside looking for a nice place, but Dean thinks room service is better anyway. He’ll get the kid to make a call, choose something nice. They’ll eat, and then he’ll nap awhile and wake up in time for dinner. He’s losing track of the days. Was tonight their last night here or tomorrow? And where after that? Jerry knows. He turns to ask.

“I mean it.”

Dean frowns. “What?”

He smiles gently at him. “What I said.” With his head in Dean’s belly. Just two words, repeating. “It’s okay.”

Dean has to look away.

***

He sits in his boxer shorts by the window. He’s pulled a table in front of the chair and now lays out a hand of solitaire. Jerry watches from the bed. Chewing his fingernail. A dent between his eyebrows. Dean goes slow. It’s dark out. A breeze – not enough of a nuisance to mess up the cards but enough to make Dean tie back the curtains – musses his hair. They’ve got a lamp on, and Jerry’s shuffled away from the moth tempting fate around the bulb. He hasn’t coughed for hours now and spent Dean’s period of unconsciousness in his room across the hall, coming back with clothes for tomorrow.

Dean clicks his tongue. “C’mere, Jer.”

Jerry comes.

“You see a red three?”

“Mm.” He perches on the arm of the chair. Dean cuts the unplaced stack to let him look. A moment passes. Then: “Uh-uh.” Shaking his head.

“Me neither.” He huffs. Leans back. Scratches his head.

“You missing one?”

“Can’t be, it’s a fresh pack.”

“Sure? Maybe it’s fallen out. Hiding somewhere.” He peeks behind Dean’s ears. Starts picking through his hair. Dean chuckles. Endures his monkey’s investigation. Then the kid searches in earnest. Crawls on the floor, roots in drawers and in the pockets of Dean’s pants and jackets. He shrugs.

“Never mind, Jer.” He sighs and sweeps the cards into a messy pile.

“Here.” The kid holds out his hands. Dean dumps the cards there and watches him carry them to the bed. He lays them out one by one on the comforter. Puts them in order. Spades with spades and diamonds with diamonds and clubs with clubs and hearts with—

“You _are_ missing one.”

“Figures.” Dean joins him on the bed.

“Three of hearts. See?”

Dean checks his work. “I’ll be a son of a gun.” He nudges the kid. “You solved the mystery.” Then he frowns. “No use for ’em now.”

“Sure there is. Hold on.” He crawls up the bed and roots in the nightstand. Comes back with his little black notebook. He smiles sheepishly at Dean’s raised eyebrow. “Dick brought it to me.” He flips through. Tears out a clean page. Lies on his stomach and sketches out the missing card. Tongue peeking between his lips. Dean rests a hand on the small of his back. Tilts his head to watch his boy at work. He folds and tears and gets it just right. “Need to colour it in,” he says. “But for now it’s fine.” He holds it out. For Dean’s approval.

He’s made a nice job of it. Hearts in the corners smaller, one up one down. Hearts down the middle, two up one down. It’s perfect. Colour missing, as he says. Perfect anyway. He tells him so. Can’t look right at him when he does it. Watches instead his long fingers slip the makeshift three of hearts between the two and four. He covers his hands then. Helps him stack the cards. Hearts, clubs, diamonds, spades. Shows him to reverse the order in the second half. “Kissing kings,” he says. Jerry laughs. “Sure they're not queens?” Dean pretends to hit him.

Dean puts the cards away and by the time he turns back Jerry’s got the bed ready. He smiles. Waits. Thinks maybe Dean might tell him seeing as he’s better now his own room’s fine. Dean considers it. Smiles back. Wants the kid with him and knows somehow he won’t try anything this time. Knows he’ll joke a little but settle down and sleep. Maybe want to be held but that’s all. Dean wants that too. He climbs in with him and turns off the light. Lifts an arm and feels him snuggle under it. They watch that little moth flutter in the shaft of bluish silver through the open window. It’s swallowed up in darkness.

Jerry huffs. “Gonna crawl in my ear in the night.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“I heard that.”

Dean laughs and kisses the top of his head.

“Gonna lay eggs and eat its way back out.”

“Figured you’d be used to it, or did ya forget your audience of flies?”

“That’s different, they were paying customers.”

“Ah I see.”

“And anyhow, I made my choice. It was worth it.” He hums. “Maybe I oughta grow my hair out again.”

“Christ, it’ll be the end of us.”

“You really didn’t like it?” His own legitimate voice breaking through.

“Jerry, I had no idea what it was supposed to be.”

He sighs. “You didn’t like when I washed the stuff out? When it dried all long and soft? Mm?”

Dean sees, foggy and distant, a sixteen-year-old boy. Freshly showered and drying his hair. _Christ, there’s so much of it!_ he cried, fingering a lock of it. It came below his ears, slightly curved towards his face. _Well, sure_, he said. _Gives ’em somethin’ to pull on._ Dean shoved him off the bed.

“You just liked it when I played with your hair.”

“Well, yes.”

So Dean plays with his hair. Much shorter now, but still enough to get his fingers in. To stroke and gently scratch his scalp. Jerry sighs again. Strokes idly Dean’s chest then wriggles his face into his neck. Kisses there just once. Then lies back where he was. Dean’s hand moves now. Holds the nape of Jerry’s neck and squeezes lightly.

“Nice?” he asks.

“Mm.” And then: “Are you excited for tomorrow?”

“What’s tomorrow?”

Jerry sits up. He stares at Dean. Eyes wide and sparkling. Incredulous. “Huh?”

“What’s tomorrow?”

“Are you for real?”

“Yeah, I’m for real, what is this?”

“Paul, you – well, it’s—” He laughs. Baffled and tired and totally taken aback. “God, never mind. I’ll tell you in the morning.” He lies back down. Stares at the ceiling and laughs. “Unbelievable.”

Dean waits. Thinks he doesn’t sound angry or frustrated. Just confused. So rolls him on to his side and tucks him against his body. No resistance. Never any resistance for this part. Or any part, come to think of it. Jerry lets himself be rolled and tucked and now gets snug here. Skinny back to broad chest. Deans thinks maybe this is his favourite part. He thinks they have that in common.

Jerry plays with his fingers.

“Sorry about before,” he says.

“Don’t be.” Kisses the back of his head. “Go to sleep, Jer.”

“Mm.” Still plays with his fingers. “We still friends?”

“Surely.” And knows another question’s coming. Knows he could tell him to shut up and stop it now. Go to sleep. Talk in the morning. Or better, forget all about it. He waits anyway.

“Still partners?”

“Oh,” Dean says. Swallows. Fights not to clear his throat. “Always.”

“Good.” Whatever tension remained in his boy’s fragile frame seeps out now. He’s small and warm and soft against Dean’s chest. “Night, Paul.”

“Night.” And drifting off he thinks about tomorrow and whatever that may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young Dino with his brother, the inspiration for the bit about the photograph:  
  
The caption says Dean's on the left, but in Jerry's book he says Dean's on the right. Who can we trust?


End file.
